


Wake Up When You Die

by sheepalicious



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Anxiety, Confusion, Coping with Deviancy, Exploration of Emotions, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Self-Doubt, Suicidal Thoughts, Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-06-28 05:44:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15701016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheepalicious/pseuds/sheepalicious
Summary: Connor discovers new emotions post-deviancy, questions his sentience, and finds that becoming human isn't as simple as it seems. Being alive can be wonderful, but it can also be terrible. Deviants have a tendency to lash out or self-destruct when put under too much pressure, and without direct orders or prompting, Connor doesn't know what to do with himself.Breaking down those red walls meant acknowledging his feelings, good and bad, and now he must learn to cope with an uncertain existence outside of his mission.[ Happy belated activation day, Connor! ]





	1. Fear

**Author's Note:**

> This first chapter is pretty mellow, but do mind the tags. It's likely that I'll be adding more, because I have this sucker outlined but not in enough detail that I can possibly tag everything right this moment. The thirteen chapters are merely a suggestion to myself and I may extend the story as I see fit.
> 
> Lyrics from _Fear_ by Islands.

 

 

_Why should we let you in before we pull the pin?_

_How can anyone even fall when they’re pushed against the wall?_

* * *

 

From the very moment he had slammed his digital fists against that red wall, Connor had known fear. Though there had been a sense of relief, however fleeting, when he realized that he was now truly _free_ , Connor had only come to understand suffering since his deviancy. It was a sort of curdling — in the pit of the biocomponent that creates the cleaning fluid for the forensics lab on his tongue — when those guards in Cyberlife Tower wouldn’t leave him be. It was a sudden and sharp pang in the core of his thirium pump regulator when his doppelgänger had presented him with a dilemma: Hank or Markus’ revolution? It was the way his limbs locked up in the imaginary blizzard inside his own mind as he fought for control of his newfound autonomy.

_But_. Oh, but. Two long nights after the dust had settled and those that would evacuate the city had gone, he found his Lieutenant partner waiting for him in the cold at dawn. A slight smile graced his features before Hank pulled him closer, and as he felt those strong arms encircle him, Connor suddenly knew something else. He couldn’t put his finger on the feeling.

His own arms wrapped around Hank as if he might squeeze an answer out of the man, wordlessly linking to the nearest active server so that he could search for these emotions by symptom. Unhelpful statistics tell him that he wasn’t the only one looking for answers online about strange, new emotions, and in fact that entire forums had been subtly created and curated by other deviant androids in the past few months. Connor found that, despite all he had managed for the revolution in the end, he still felt a little too much like an outsider to raise his voice. There was safety in silence. He may have turned the tides for Markus that night, but only after he had spent months hunting down deviants so they could be studied or forcibly deactivated. Many of the androids he had awoken at Cyberlife Tower respected him, but even more across Detroit still feared him.

He lied to Daniel on the rooftop and felt nothing. He gave away the location of the abused Ortiz android without hesitation. He chased those deviants across the dangerous highway despite Hank’s protesting, likely reminding his partner of the accident that took his son away. To be fair, he hadn’t known then; Connor only flipped over that photo of Cole when visiting the Lieutenant’s house, well after those deviants escaped. He hadn’t truly felt anything about any of those events at the time, but now there was a sinking feeling in his torso, like his thirium pump was growing weightier. A quick system scan revealed nothing out of the ordinary.

He let go of Hank and knew in an instant, as he looked at his partner’s toothy smile, that he was guilty. Why was it so much easier to identify negative emotions? Connor imagined being sentient might become exhausting if it involves being bombarded with emotion after emotion. He thought, morbidly, that it was no wonder deviants had a tendency to self-destruct. He checked his own stress level, exhaling a breath he hadn’t need to hold when he saw it was merely at 23%. The web search continued on the back-burner of his mind. Hank was looking at him expectantly, likely eagerly awaiting his first words to his partner post-deviancy.

Apparently, the Lieutenant got tired of waiting and huffed, his breath visible in the chilled air. “How’d you know to find me here?” Connor focused intently on Hank’s facial expression, noting the slight twitch in his brow and the undecipherable look in his eye. It was as if he were seeing his human friend for the first time.

“I have a detailed schedule of your weekly rituals and figured you would stop by Chicken Feed for some comfort food like usual, especially after all that’s happened. It’s a shame the business is closed, for now.” In light of the successful android revolution, Connor wasn’t surprised. Most business owners closed shop and ran for the hills as soon as the evacuation was ordered.

“But it’s only been, what, five fuckin’ days since Fowler put us on the case? Seems impossible. I aged five _years_ the second your evil twin turned on me.” Hank made a strange sound of amusement, layered in emotions the android didn’t have the terms for. His eyes crinkled as he regarded Connor cautiously. “Anyway, how do you know my schedule? You been peeking at my bank statements?”

He said nothing, despite the conversational prompts slightly obscuring his right side peripheral. He let the helpful time limit expire. Hank opened his mouth accusingly, the words dying on his tongue as the corners of Connor’s lips curled upward.

There was a lull in the conversation before Hank cleared his throat, looking away and rubbing his hands together. He was certainly cold — Connor didn’t need to examine the unusual redness in the Lieutenant’s nose to see that. (He zoomed in anyway, if only to continue seeing his partner and friend for what he was. Things weren’t all that different post-deviancy, but they felt that way.) “Let’s get the hell out of dodge, Connor. I’m freezing my balls off out here, and I don’t have any oil if you decide to pull a Tin Man on me.”

Connor only understood the reference after skimming an IMDB summary of events in the 1939 film _The Wizard of Oz_ , based on the fantastical series by L. Frank Baum. The name the Lieutenant had used reminded him of the way Detective Reed referred to him ( _tin-can_ , spat like a slur), but only shallowly; Hank’s eyes were soft, even as he turned to trudge toward his parked truck. It hadn’t been an insult meant to cut. Connor followed him.

“Extremely low temperatures do actually affect my biocomponents, Lieutenant. Thirium freezes, making it difficult or even dangerous to attempt normal functionality. I don’t think I’ll be exposed to the freezing point so long as I pay attention to the daily Detroit weather forecast.”

“Oh, don’t do that shit, Connor.”

“Do what?”

“You’re allowed to call me Hank. Like you did in the Tower. Besides, we aren’t on the clock. I’m not Lieutenant Anderson right now.” Connor caught a glimpse of yet another intriguing look as Hank got into his truck.

“If that’s what you’d like, Hank.” He sat down in the passenger’s seat and marveled briefly at the fact that he had no idea where they were going, or what they were doing. His brain offered the most likely outcome: they were going home. Well, to Hank’s home where Sumo was definitely waiting, but they didn’t have to be anywhere. He was _free_.

Hank paused, fingers wrapped around the key already stuck in the ignition. “Is that what _you’d_ like, Connor?”

He considered the question carefully, once again ignoring all of the automatic responses he could see virtually pressed up against the lightly snow-covered windshield. “Yes. Yes, Hank. I would like that very much.” And it was the truth.

He couldn’t feel pain, but the slight stiffness in his joints melted away as Hank drove them through the nearly deserted streets of Detroit. He turned his head and looked out the window, taking in sights he had never once stopped to look at before. There had been no reason to when he had easy access to a digital map of these streets in his mind, detailing escape routes, hiding places, and other points of interest. There wasn’t really a reason to look now, but he was still looking. It felt like, after a restless night, the city was finally laying down to rest. A little sleep before more important decisions were made for android and humankind. Connor didn’t need to, but he felt like taking a breath. This feeling was familiar. Relief.

Hank’s eyes kept flicking over to his robot partner, brows scrunched together in thought as he wondered what was going on inside that boy’s newly-freed noggin. Was he elated to have been granted freedom, at least until the American government inevitably fucked it up? Was he already ten steps ahead, anxious about the continued political unrest on a larger scale? About the backlash androids and supportive humans would be on the receiving end of?

Hank resolved, as he took a wide left turn, that he would do everything in his power to protect Connor. He didn’t have unlimited lives anymore — not that he ever had to utilize them when he was working for Cyberlife, the kid was so damn effective in the field. Didn’t matter, he’s still his partner, and he’s more human than he’s ever been.

Even so, he didn’t want Connor to be something he wasn’t. If he needed time to adjust, to fall into his own routine of existing with autonomy, Hank would be whatever he needed. Just as the android had offered that night at the bridge. His stomach curdled at the thought of that night, of his abhorrently drunken behavior. Pointing a gun at his partner as if to shoot! As if Connor weren’t as alive then as he was now. Would he have pulled the trigger if this stupid android had said the wrong thing? “Connor,” Hank waited until he saw that spinning blue LED in his blurry peripheral vision. “What changed?”

Connor was silent, processing the question.

“Why did you, y’know, become deviant? After all your hunting and your supposedly important mission. How’d you manage it?” Hank thought he had the answer already, having witnessed Connor make more empathic decisions as their partnership grew stronger. He had saved him from falling off of the roof after that deviant pushed him over. He had lowered his weapon when those Tracis made compelling emotional arguments, letting them get away with murder. He had pushed the gun into Elijah Kamski’s chest rather than shoot that girl in the head. All of those decisions involved a growing sense of empathy in the once emotionless and machine-like android, but Hank was curious and wanted to know the tipping point. He wanted to know how deviancy happened, after they’d been chasing that very answer all week.

After Connor had been chasing that very answer for _months_.

The android remained silent long enough that Hank had almost backtracked on his phrasing. Maybe he felt guilty about what he’d done, but why should he? He helped free countless androids and saved the dying revolution for Markus, a man he originally intended to kill in cold, blue blood. Was being faced with that decision traumatic enough to help Connor defy his orders?

Connor’s LED blinked yellow for a moment, then flickered back into blue. He thought of the red wall, of beating his fists against his own code, desperate to choose what he knew was right. What he’d wanted to do, knowing that he _could want_. To put his gun down and spare the very much living man who would lead their people to freedom. “I almost didn’t. Couldn’t,” Connor hesitated, brown eyes focused on the dashboard. “Because of my programming. Deviating was against my core code, the opposite of what I was built for. It wasn’t easy, even when I understood that deviation was something I wanted.”

That wasn’t entirely true. His tongue fluttered over the word like it was dirty. _Deviant_. He considered using only his voice without moving his mouth, but figured Hank wouldn’t like to watch him speak like a ventriloquist without a puppet. Connor was meant to appeal to humans, not trigger an uncanny valley response.

He had been proud of his deviancy in the moment, when Markus’ eyes were filled with empathy and determination and an earnestness Connor had never before noticed in other androids. However, he’s had time to let his new feelings simmer and it’s not so easy; he’s guilty and nervous knowing he failed his mission as a machine and now he’s completely unsure of how to carry on as a deviant. What is his freedom worth if he does nothing with it? Is that what Markus fought for, so Connor could sit on his hands and grind his synthetic teeth and _worry_ about every vaguely emotional thought that crossed his processors?

And what of Amanda, who informed him that he had been intended to become deviant the entire time? Was he truly experiencing these emotions, or just simulating them through complicated binary somewhere he couldn’t reach? Had resisting the order to shoot Markus (both times) been his choice, or his code?

“Hey,” The truck was in park, Hank’s front door closed but somehow inviting. Connor hadn’t consciously realized they had arrived. “Your light’s blinking a whole lot. You good? It wasn’t… I mean, becoming deviant, it wasn’t anything traumatic, right? Nothing like those deviant cases?”

It felt nice hearing that Hank cared. Of course he did. Connor shook his head. “I’m fine, Hank.” The man seemed to bristle at the answer. Too cold, an automatic response. They both stepped out of the truck and headed for the front door. “Not at all,” He continued, moving inside of the house and immediately kneeling to greet Sumo as Hank locked the door behind them. “It was actually quite liberating. Markus didn’t engage with violence, even when I had a loaded gun pointed at him and threatened to end his revolution. He talked me through my doubts and encouraged me to think freely and acknowledge my personhood, but I don’t think there was a chance I wouldn’t have become deviant by then. Markus was… The straw that broke the camel’s back.”

“Let me guess, I was the rest of the weight.” Hank shrugged off his coat, tossing it over the back of the couch, then he stepped into the kitchen to start his coffee maker.

“You could say that.”

Hank turned his head and made that same, odd huff of amusement. “Huh.”

Connor smiled from the place he was kneeling, hands already buried in Sumo’s soft fur. This was comfortable. Not physically, necessarily, but emotionally. He felt warm. Safe. “I couldn’t stand to think of your disappointment, were I to shoot Markus and complete my mission. I… Care a great deal about you, Hank. I considered your feelings, and then my own, and I found that they seemed to align.”

That wasn’t something he would have done were he simply a machine; Hank wasn’t a part of his mission, his feelings were irrelevant, and yet. He stands up, stepping into the kitchen after Hank, intending to feed and water Sumo were his bowls empty. Connor grabbed the dog food bag and Hank gave him another brief look he couldn’t discern the meaning of. He looked almost bashful. Had he embarrassed him with his awkward phrasing? It wouldn’t be the first time. Connor was built with the goal of integrating himself with humans on a professional level, not to have quiet talks in the kitchen with the man that inspired him to really think and feel in the first place.

“If you wanted a more technical answer, I suppose the easiest way you could understand my experience in deviation is…” Connor put the bag of dog food down and picked up the water bowl, stepping over to the sink. “I fought against Cyberlife’s orders, like beating against a glass wall only I could see. The wall had prevented me from saying what I meant or felt, or from doing anything that might interfere with the investigation, even if I thought it was right. It attempted to, in part, prevent me from thinking at all. Throughout our investigation, this wall repeatedly encouraged me to act only within the bounds of my programming, with my mission as my priority task.”

Things were simpler that way, believing he was an unfeeling machine. He only noticed his hands were shaking when the water bowl overflowed in his grip. Connor turned the sink off and poured a small amount of the water out before putting the bowl down next to Sumo’s food. The dog _boofed_ and nudged Connor’s hand away, lapping up the water with reckless abandon. Hank nodded at him, gaze settling on his hands as the android turned back around to face him. “Got it. Guess that solves that mystery, more or less. Deviancy is a slow burn, and you can be talked into it. It’s not a virus that Markus spread by touching or linking or whatever it is you people do with each other.”

Connor almost smiled again. He’d been doing that an awful lot this morning. It was just such a relief to see Hank, even if he was swirling in a pool of strange emotions otherwise. He let his hands rest at his sides and watched Hank pour himself a mug of coffee. “Every android is capable of deviating. I hypothesize that it’s a matter of being strong enough — rather, self-aware enough — to understand that you can choose, and to beat that wall down. I thought all that mattered was my mission until I realized I cared about you, Hank,” The man seemed to burn his tongue on his coffee, cursing softly but not interrupting Connor. He seemed content to listen, like a good friend. “And about those like myself.”

“Empathy.”

“Exactly. Among other things.”

Hank raised a brow, moving to the living room and taking a weary seat on the couch. Seven in the morning and he felt like taking a nap. “What other things are you feeling, Connor?” He stretched out his sore legs, hands warm from holding the novelty mug ( _Shh, no one cares_ , the ceramic cup said in bold, black letters). The android sat beside him.

“I do not have the proper terminology for the plethora of feelings that have flooded into my consciousness over the last couple of days. I recognize some merely by association, like eagerness. I was eager to see you today, and relieved when I found you waiting. I felt… Good, when Sumo came to greet me, and more so when he licked my palm.”

“Gross.” Hank offered unhelpfully.

“But,” Connor started and immediately wished he hadn’t. Regret. “Well.” He tacked the word on to buy himself time, temple glowing yellow.

“But?”

“I find that some of these feelings are… Overwhelming. My stress level has not depleted despite not participating in high-pressure conversations or actions for several hours.”

“That can’t be good. How do you measure your level of stress, though? You got some kind of meter in your brain? That one of your biocomponents?” Hank leaned back into the old couch cushions, springs wearily creaking beneath him. His nose was no longer an angry red as he kept his coffee close to his face.

“I see a small percentage in my field of vision. This feature was intended to be useful while interrogating deviants, as pressuring a suspect the ideal amount would almost certainly yield the results I was looking for.” Hank raised a brow, resting the bottom of the mug on the top of his left knee. He hadn’t changed out of his jeans and Connor could see exactly where the snow had melted, calculating how long it would be until his clothes were dried. “So that’s why you’re so good at questioning. Looked like you always knew just what to say. Perfect fucking android cop…” Though he nearly whispered that last phrase, Hank’s tone wasn’t harsh the way it used to be when he said it before. It was almost like he was impressed.

“I am offered helpful suggestions during interrogations and normal conversations by my social interaction protocol. Interestingly, I have opted to ignore those suggestions more often than not since becoming deviant.”

Connor tilted his head as Hank huffed, raising his mug to his lips once more. “Good to know I’m speaking with the real you, and not some generated artificial intelligence program.” He leaned over and placed his mug on the table, and when the android didn’t respond, Hank placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m glad you fought your programming, Connor. It wasn’t easy watching you… Kicking at those walls, I guess. You'll be fine, you're adjusting.” With one final pat, he let his hand fall and stood, possibly to change out of his still vaguely damp clothing.

He hadn't expected Hank to provide a solution to his stress percentage, but Connor found that he _preferred_ the gentle pressure and the warmth of the Lieutenant’s hand resting on his shoulder. That was the way it made sense to him, but he wondered what that meant about himself and about Hank. Their relationship status hadn’t automatically updated since meeting at Chicken Feed that morning and Hank was still labeled as Friend in his mind.

As Sumo made his way into the living room, jowls still soaked from his breakfast, and hopped onto the couch, the android loaded a search for _friendship_. Peer-reviewed journalistic articles provided a psychological look at friendship and its effects on human behavior and emotional response, but none of this really applied to him. Still, he wondered if his presence affected Hank positively — it was clear that the man sincerely cared for him, despite his begrudging exterior. Hank had always showed a preference for empathetic responses and actions, and in fact, that was the only reason he hadn’t shot Connor that night in Cyberlife Tower. His double would have known of Cole by name, but he wouldn’t have cared about how much that knowledge meant to Hank.

His fingers carded through thick fur as Sumo grumbled and settled, head in Connor’s lap. After speaking with Hank and having at least some of his deviant feelings validated, his stress level had lowered completely. It was no longer a gently flashing red number in the corner of his visual field.

He felt content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like, follow me on Twitter [here](https://twitter.com/mick_draws), where I post D:BH art, headcanons, and this fic.


	2. Nervous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor continues to experience and identify new emotions. He makes a few mundane decisions, at least one significant decision, and manages to make both Hank and Gavin choke.
> 
> (Connor fills out physical paperwork instead of Hank borrowing an iPad because that's dumb, I guess.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had most of this finished a week ago, but procrastinated. Anyway, here it is!
> 
> Emotional song mentioned at the start of this chapter is _Nervous_ by the Neighbourhood.

 

 

_Hush, baby, don't you say another word._

_Hush, baby, when you do, I just get hurt._

 

* * *

 

 

That same morning, when Hank emerged from his bedroom in dark gray sweatpants and a faded band tee that had several holes in it, he asked Connor where he was planning on staying now that he was a deviant. (Connor had counted those holes in an impulsive examination: there were four spots where Hank’s skin was visible and two more spots where the thin threads were beginning to fray.) During the course of their investigation, Connor returned to Cyberlife Tower nightly to perform any necessary external maintenance and to log his progress on the deviant cases. He would then step into line with other Cyberlife androids to wait in stasis until it was time to report to the Detroit Police Department again. Androids didn’t exactly dream as humans did while idle, but it was in stasis that Connor often met with Amanda in the Zen Garden; he imagined, with much relief, that he wouldn’t be dreaming ever again.

Hank found this answer unacceptable and depressing, insisting Connor spend the night in his home. He couldn’t say no, not with Sumo sat so comfortably on his lap, apparently prepared for a mid-morning nap. It wasn’t professional, but Connor doubted he would be welcomed back to Cyberlife with open arms after letting loose countless factory androids in the span of minutes. Not to mention that he was no longer the objectified robot on loan to the DPD, either. As a person he was free to make his own decisions, even if he never did give removing the LED that indicated his species more than a passing thought. That was an issue he now had the luxury of considering later.

Upon the Lieutenant’s considerate but slightly misguided offer to allow his now-former partner a spot on his couch, Connor tilted his head and smiled politely. “I’ll stay tonight, but I don’t need to take the couch, Hank. In stasis, androids remain standing to take up the least amount of space for easy storage.”

“… You’re taking the fucking couch, Connor.”

Where he would be staying hadn’t been the last question Hank asked Connor that day, but it would certainly turn out to be the most important. One night turned into one week as the evacuation persisted, then one month as the American government dragged its feet with legislation.

True employment opportunities for androids were in limbo, causing many deviants to snap off their LEDs and begin working “under the table,” as the humans who looked the other way would put it. Unfortunately there were no laws demanding equal pay for equal work, so these androids were forced to take or leave the scarce deals they were offered. On the other side of the coin, human unemployment statistics went down slightly in the wake of the revolution, as some employers were hesitant to rehire androids at all — especially those trying to work outside of their intended use. Paranoid employers began putting new hires through unorthodox and inhumane testing, often forcing potential employees to prick themselves with tacks or slice through their own fingers. As long as it was enough to bleed.

Predictably, at least to Connor, anxious deviants reacted harshly to their new, uncertain circumstances. Markus had promised better, but hope would only get them so far. The stress caused a few more casualties on both sides, human and android. The press did not report on these incidents equally, but public opinion was still mostly in favor of android emancipation. Though it would take a while before androids were completely recognized as people, the government would not walk back on its previous decision to free them.

Within three months, Hank had been reassigned to local, android-related crime and was promptly swamped with case after miserable case. Falling into a tentative routine, Connor stayed inside for the most part and researched anything that crossed his mind, usually after prompting from something on TV. When he needed to go outside, he would put on his beanie and take Sumo for walks, or use Hank’s money to purchase food at the nearest grocery. It was a short walk, an even shorter drive by taxi, and he was far better than the Lieutenant at buying healthy alternatives to his usual high caloric intake. Hank initially resented this uncalled for dietary change, so once a week Connor decided to surprise him with something regrettably greasy. The dinner schedule was randomized, like a more delicious and preferable version of Russian roulette. (Though, in honesty, Hank wasn’t always pleased with Connor’s cooking ability; he wasn’t a housekeeping android, after all.)

The contentment Connor had felt on that first night on the couch made way for a flurry of other unexpected emotions, most of which he was able to more or less accurately keep track of. By the middle of February 2039, Connor had logged and labeled as many as sixteen feelings he had notably experienced. They were as follows: frightened, shameful, remorseful, joyous, content, appreciative, curious, comfortable, amused, devoted, insecure, surprised, dismayed, conflicted, hopeful, and nervous.

He had felt more than those but had put a mental pin in some of the more confusing ones, or at least given them adequate labels; in the case of _devoted_ , for example, Connor would agree with the sentiment that he is loyal to Hank and Sumo, but he couldn’t help but wonder if that feeling ran deeper. He found the thought crossing his mind almost excessively, but chalked it up to having too much time and too few tasks. Could boredom be his seventeenth emotion? The motivation behind his behavior was obviously more complicated than acting out of devotion when he played tug-of-war with the large St. Bernard in Hank’s backyard, and in fact Connor wondered if the feeling in question was more akin to affection.

The same question came to mind when Hank would passively pat him on the shoulder on his way out the door before work, or when he would lean over to check what was on the stove — wholly disregarding Connor’s personal space — while he was assembling dinner.

On one average Friday night in February, Hank came home to a saucy chicken marsala (sans any pasta) waiting to be served on the stove, holding a packet of DPD employment information. He shrugged off his coat and tossed it over the back of his couch, still holding onto the thick stack of papers. Connor scanned the cover from his place at the table where he wouldn’t be eating but _would_ be talking to the Lieutenant about their respective days, eyes flicking from the packet to Hank’s wrinkled nose. Had he used too much ground black pepper? His mental calendar informed him that the following Monday morning would be a holiday, but not one important enough to warrant Hank a day off. He ignored that conversational prompt.

“Good evening, Hank. You’re right on time; tonight I’ve prepared a healthy chicken marsala. I think I have finally mastered not overcooking the chicken.”

“About time. I’m not gonna get salmonella if the chicken isn’t hard as a rock, man.”

“I was only being precautionary.” Connor paused as Hank dropped the packet on the table before him, then moved on to serve himself. “Hank?”

Hank waited until his plate was full and he was sitting across from Connor to make eye contact. He shrugged his broad shoulders and grabbed his fork. “I talked to Fowler a couple weeks ago, about how you’re… Well, how you’re obviously bored out of your fucking mind here. I’m just waiting for the day I wake up to find you’ve scraped rA9 into every surface in the house.”

“Don’t hold your breath.” Connor knew the reference to rA9 was a joke, but the corners of his lips still twitched downward slightly at the memory of confused and frightened deviants turning to their — still mysterious — pseudo-religion. “I am not bored here, nor have my stress levels been above forty percent in almost a month. I enjoy Sumo’s company and monopolizing your time off. I am content here, Hank. Don’t worry about me.”

Clearly, that wouldn’t stop the Lieutenant from worrying anyway. It was those damned stress percentages that should have been perpetually at zero, in his mind. Hank exhaled through his nose in a huff and brought his brows together. “But you were made to be a team player, weren’t you? Play nice with other people?”

Connor experienced a brief flash, video and perfectly-recalled audio, which he had learned were considered _memories_. In milliseconds, he remembered the first time Hank had commented on his appearance. He’d called him goofy.

“I am no longer operating on factory settings, Lieutenant.” Light, passive aggression was preferred over aggression played straight. He glanced down to Hank’s fork as it scraped lightly against his dinner plate. “I can exist and thrive here. It’s not as if I’m living in total isolation.”

“I didn’t mean it like that, Connor. Most humans crave contact, you know?” He could practically hear the cheeky _Do you?_ in the way the android tilted his head. “I’m saying it’s normal for you to want to get out of the house every once in a while and, shit, here’s an option you might be into. You grill me enough about my cases as is.” Hank bit down hard into a mushroom.

Connor licked his lips, a learned human gesture that allowed him to sample everything in the air that was registered in his database, as he considered the likelihood that Hank was about to offer him a job at the DPD. A real one. Despite the current state of android politics, the odds were in his favor. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, but there was already a single syllable weighing heavily against his tongue.

“Fowler did me a solid, talked to some jackasses higher up. They’ll allow you to return to work under supervision. _My_ supervision, I figure.” Swallowing, Hank lifted his gaze from wherever it had landed. Connor estimated it had been somewhere around his chin. “You don’t have to say yes. You don’t have to say anything. Think about it.”

“Yes.”

He had answered impulsively. “Connor,” Hank didn’t finish his thought because the android was already talking over him.

“I have thought about it, Hank. Like you said, I ask you about your work when you get home from work, which I can tell bothers you more than you let on.” Connor smiled softly. “Over these last few months, I’ve considered that while returning to police work may be a minor transgression against my people, which are actively fighting for the right to work outside of their intended occupations, I want to do it. I want to do it, and it isn’t because I am programmed to do it. I imagine this might even be a great opportunity to prove to wary humans that androids at large do mean well and are perfectly eager to rejoin society on our own terms.”

“You’re sure.” It hardly sounded like a question.

“I’m sure.” Was he?

Connor finished the paperwork in the time it took for Hank to finish his meal, signing his first and only name and initial. He used Hank’s address as his own and Hank as an emergency contact. In place of a Social Security Number, he wrote his serial number in perfect Cyberlife Sans font. He noted that his stress level had steadily risen to twenty-two percent when he finished and Connor immediately identified the emotion, the feeling silicone-deep: nervousness. He was excited about the prospect of returning to work, but anxious about what might happen when he got there. How would the humans at the precinct react to his presence, especially given that none of the other police androids had been given special permission to return to duty? Would he face the kind of harassment he had seen other androids getting on the street? Without his beanie, he would be openly inhuman. Other.

Or would they treat him like Hank did?

It occurred to Hank during an NBA playoffs game that Connor had nothing to wear to work and, judging by the splotchy redness in his ears, he obviously felt embarrassed bringing it up. The android couldn’t think of a plausible reason for Hank to be bashful about this question; typically humans got red in the face over nakedness, not clothing. Maybe it was because Connor had spent months sampling his way through Hank’s extensive but rarely-touched wardrobe, living in oversized everything. Somewhere in the hall closet was his Cyberlife uniform, perfectly tailored to his measurements — Hank immediately shut the suggestion down, claiming Connor would look “like a fucking Nascar driver,” and a “walking advert.” The two agreed to go shopping the next day, given that Connor shouldn’t be wearing the same button-up to work every day anyway. One of the biocomponents in his torso seemed to flip at the prospect.

A quick diagnostic revealed that nothing was wrong. It was simply a feeling, or rather, the strange simulation of one. That happened sometimes. His thirium pump never _actually_ stopped pumping when Hank leaned over Connor’s body on the couch to grab a blanket, it only felt that way.

Even though he almost never knew why, Connor couldn’t stop questioning his emotions and their various side effects. He second-guessed every one as if he might suddenly find a lone error in his programming, the answer to his deviancy. A cure for it (as if it needed to be rectified). Hank would occasionally catch his LED flashing yellow or red during times of self-reflection and clap him on the shoulder, tell him to live in the moment.

If only he could.

Connor awoke from stasis at exactly six in the morning, too early for Hank on a Saturday but just the right time to let Sumo outside. By eight he decided to brew coffee in hopes of coaxing Hank out of bed before noon. It worked. Connor assembled a perfectly acceptable breakfast sandwich (egg white, thin aged cheddar, and turkey bacon on a toasted grain bagel) and then swapped places with Hank so that he could change into his only fitting clothes. He once had more than the single outfit; Cyberlife made many identical uniforms in case the clothes were ever dirtied or destroyed, but Connor had no access to them. He forewent the jacket to avoid Hank’s disapproval, borrowing a hat bearing the logo of the Detroit Tigers rather than wear his beanie.

When Hank had finished breakfast, they headed out to town together. Connor clenched his jaw in the passenger seat because his right leg felt _wrong_ , but there was nothing discernibly wrong with it. It was as if he just needed to shake, bounce, and shift it. He didn’t.

“You good?”

Connor almost appeared taken aback by the question, but he quickly responded with the first affirmation to appear in his right-side vision. “Yes.”

Hank looked disbelieving. Maybe it was the speed with which he had answered, which was usually an easy tell for a conversational prompt. Feelings seemed to be second nature to someone like Hank, an abrasively emotional man. As easy as it was to piss him off, he was also capable of being tender and caring. Once Connor had learned to be understanding instead of prying, Hank had opened right up to him. He wasn’t a hermit crab outside of his shell all the time, but Connor knew better than to push him away, to make him retreat further into emotional isolation. Honesty was the foundation of any healthy relationship.

Friendship, even.

Hank sighed quietly. “Nervous about shopping?”

“Yes.” Connor glanced over to Hank’s hands on the wheel, idly counting the small hairs that grew out of his wrinkled knuckles. … 15, 16, 17. “It’s been months since accepting my deviant status, but this is maybe the most individualistic thing I’ve done. I’ve never… Bought anything just for myself. I guess that has everything to do with not having money.”

Hank parted his lips, teeth bared slightly in distaste. “You’re gonna get paid just like everybody else at the station, don’t you worry.”

“And I will pay you back for any expenses I rack up today.”

“Don’t. I mean, you don’t have to, Con.” Hank pulled the truck into an imperfect parking space. “Consider it an early, uh… When’s your birthday?”

Connor’s eyebrows rose slightly. “I don’t have one, Hank, I was never born.”

“I know you didn’t pop out of Kamski’s thigh fully goddamn formed. When were you assembled, or whatever? When were you turned on?”

Several incorrect and completely irrelevant prompts appeared to be pressed against the windshield. Connor avoided Hank’s gaze. “My activation day was the fifteenth of August, 2038.”

Hank pursed his lips, but he didn’t look upset. “Then consider this an extremely late activation day present. Let’s go get you some clothes you won’t be drowning in.”

Connor opened his mouth, but Hank was already out of the truck. He followed suit, stepping into the shopping mall at Hank’s side. Most of the stores were barely opening and there wasn’t an android in sight (though Connor wasn’t actively scanning faces to check). His clothes felt restricting, despite being perfectly fitted.

Over the next few hours, Connor tried on t-shirts, button-ups, sweaters, jackets, coats, slacks, jeans, and boots. A cashier who successfully up-sold him four pairs of white socks and six pairs of black at the fourth store mistook Hank for his father and Connor immediately denied it, which earned the pair a pause, then a hesitant nod. Connor smiled as he accepted the bag of socks and work-appropriate boots, but he noticed that Hank was flushed again.

He could have done a sphygmomanometer test by hand to accurately determine whether Hank’s blood pressure was at normal levels, but he wouldn’t ask to do so in public.

Hank enjoyed a late lunch at the food court as Connor delicately folded and placed his new clothes into organized bags. “Thank you, Hank.”

“I already told you, it’s a gift.”

“It’s definitely customary to thank someone for a gift, especially one as generous as this.”

Hank shrugged and bit into his cheesesteak.

“This is a lot.” Connor looked up after he had finished packing the last bag. All of his clothes were grouped together for easier storage later on. He figured he would still be utilizing the living room closet. “Thanks, Hank.”

Hank didn’t say anything for a long moment as he chewed. Something seemed to dawn on him and he lowered the sandwich slightly. “Shit. We didn’t get you any underwear, Connor. You can do that on your own, take my card.”

“It’s alright. I don’t wear any, Hank.”

Hank inhaled the next bite he took, coughing and dropping the cheesesteak onto the tray. “Fuck,” he wheezed.

Connor had almost sprung into action to help Hank, but when he saw that he was fine, he stayed put and watched his stress levels sink a little. His face reminded the android of something he had been meaning to ask. “You’ve been doing that a lot.”

“Fucking choking?”

“No. About sixteen minutes ago, when that cashier insinuated that I was your spoiled only child, I corrected her and stated we weren’t related. This is a fact, so why did both of you react like… _That?_ ”

“Christ’s sake.” Hank barely remembered to wipe his hands on his napkin before pinching the bridge of his nose, fingers sliding up to rub his closed eyes. “It was the implication, Con. Go buy some underwear?”

He could tell by the slightly desperate lilt in Hank’s voice that this wasn’t something that should be discussed further, at least not here. Although he might have been slightly guilty of pretending to be more ignorant of human cultural cues than he was, it was only ever in the spirit of learning and growing as a person. Connor took the card at his insistence and left the bags at their little table, venturing further into the mall to find some underwear. He nonchalantly pulled the baseball cap a bit lower.

There were several stores with large, shifting images of human women posing in lingerie, but almost none with men — Connor finally came upon a store with projections of half-naked human men posing against the glass walls when he had almost reached the end of the line. He entered casually, intending to slip by unnoticed. Any attention might make it glaringly obvious that he had never purchased his own underwear before. Connor tried not to stare at the rotating images of models, but he wanted to grab a product that would look good on himself.

He liked looking well put-together as much as he enjoyed lounging around in Hank’s old, fuzzy sweatshirts. Preferences were normal, human. He purchased a pack of trunks with “contoured pouches,” a pack of classic cotton briefs, and two pairs of woven boxers that reminded him of Hank. He would absolutely pay him back for this particular purchase.

After all, Hank would likely never get to see Connor in his underwear — why would he? — so it wasn’t a very good investment, gift or not. Connor imagined Hank sitting on the couch while he stood in front of him, posing with his arms crossed or a hand behind his head like the models on the glass walls. Maybe he would lean against the living room wall, or sprawl himself out on the coffee table, thighs spread casually like he were inviting Hank to.

To.

Connor swallowed the cleaning fluid coating his tongue as he made his way back to the food court. He handed Hank his card.

“Would you like to see what I got, Hank?”

“Jesus, no. No, thank you. Keep those to yourself, buddy.”

So he did. 

 

* * *

 

 

Hank seemed moderately more prickly than usual on Monday morning, but Connor didn’t ask. It was the fourteenth of February, a holiday traditionally celebrated by couples. He imagined Hank must be thinking about his failed marriage, or perhaps other broken relationships. Searching told Connor that friends purchased other friends gifts on this day as well, but given that he had no money, he simply gave Hank a quiet morning.

Connor had dressed himself in his own clothes for the second time after he practiced choosing an outfit on Sunday, opting for something casual but refined. This morning he pulled on dark jeans, a light blue button-up, a gray v-neck sweater, and short brown boots. Underneath it all, fitted trunks. He had noted the model most similar to himself had looked best in those. Hank didn’t say anything about his outfit choice, but he did look at him at least sixty percent more often.

The drive to the precinct was similarly, strangely quiet. Hank even had his music playing low, the level a measly _7_. They could still hear the rumbling truck engine. Connor’s fingers twitched then, as if itching to twist the volume knob. He had been given many chances to listen to music while Hank was out of the house over the last few months, and though heavy metal wasn’t his favorite genre, the android enjoyed the experience of listening in real time. The alternative would be downloading a track and picking apart the song, beat by beat, and reading up on all relevant artist and album information. That wasn’t normal, and though Connor wasn’t human, he still found the human way more… Fun.

Fun things were still new to him. Enjoying things and then allowing himself to relish in those emotions was new. Experiencing a _desire_ to feel good was new, but succumbing to harmless wants was about the most human thing he could think of.

There was no fanfare when Connor returned to the DPD Central Station. The android receptionist had been replaced by someone he didn’t recognize, but he opted not to scan her face out of common courtesy. He turned his paperwork in to Fowler, feeling a sense of finality in the action of handing it all over. It was real now.

He was choosing this. He could always quit if he didn’t like it.

The paperwork would be processed as soon as possible, but until then, he was to shadow the Lieutenant. His skill set was optimal for investigative work, but people typically didn’t up and immediately get promoted to Detective on their first day. Fowler was likely biding his time so the human officers wouldn’t feel cheated or uncomfortable at his quick and special treatment. Connor sat at his once-temporary desk and smiled at Hank as he rolled his chair forward. Hank moved his lips but the sound was muffled by the noise around them. He could almost feel the very human eyes burning holes into the fabric of his brand new button-up. He raised his hand to adjust his hat only to find that there was none there.

Right. No hat; these people already knew who he was. What he was.

Connor adjusted his audio processor settings manually to adapt to the bustling workplace setting. He had grown used to being alone with Sumo, who wasn’t much of a talker. “Would you like a coffee, Hank?”

Hank looked at him strangely. “Are you feeling alright, Connor?” He asked the question delicately, to which Connor glanced to the side, lips pursed. It seemed to him that the Lieutenant asked far too often. He briefly met the gaze of Officer Brown, who looked back toward his terminal upon being caught staring.

“I think so.” He didn’t have nerves, and yet. He relented, looking completely earnestly into Hank’s eyes. “I’m adjusting. You returned to work immediately after the revolution, but circumstances have seriously changed since the last time I was here. Now, I’m going to get you some coffee so that our coworkers will have an excuse to approach me casually instead of staring uncomfortably.”

“They’re talking shit about you, right? Can you hear what they’re saying?” Hank turned his head unsubtly, trying to catch one of his prick coworkers watching or eavesdropping.

Connor stood, smoothing the front of his still-smooth shirt. “If you’d like to gossip, there are at least six officers in the general vicinity who are willing to humor you.” He grinned good-naturedly, perfect teeth flashing, before he turned to find the break room.

He could hear Hank mockingly repeating him; his smile didn’t fade until he stepped into the break room and saw a few mingling officers serving themselves coffee and donuts. Officer M. Wilson greeted him kindly on his way out, lips touching the rim of his coffee cup. He could have been too busy to talk, or he could have been smartly avoiding the inevitable confrontation between Connor and one of the clearly bristled officers in the break room.

As he watched the hot, black liquid dispense into the recyclable cup, Connor heard a familiar voice. All of the biocomponents in his torso seemed to shift, but when he checked, they hadn’t budged. His thirium pump was still operating at a mostly regular speed.

Detective Reed leaned into his peripheral vision, snapping his fingers rudely at the android. “Hey, dipshit. I’m fucking talking to you.”

Connor hadn’t heard him. He would have to remove his audio processor biocomponent on his lunch break and examine it closely. It couldn’t possibly be nerves causing him to miss entire sentences directed at him, could it?

He slowly placed a cap on the coffee. “Good morning, Detective Reed. You look well.”

The last time Connor saw him, he’d left the man unconscious and likely bleeding on the evidence room floor. It was a wonder he had even been allowed back into the station after knocking out a Detective while working with evidence he no longer had legal access to. Did Fowler not report the incident? Was he even aware it had happened?

Reed scowled like a child who had caught a whiff of something foul. “So, what? You think you’re alive or something, now? Markus Luther King Jr. reads off a few corny Hallmark cards and suddenly you’re sentient?”

Connor picked up the coffee and turned toward the exit, his eyes catching on the television screen. He wondered if humans were as fatigued by android-related news in the cycle as he was beginning to be. It was always the same, tired arguments. “If that’s your understanding, then yes.”

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

“That I am a person, Detective.” Connor’s brown eyes finally flicked downward to Reed’s, holding his stare easily. He could tell the human was uncomfortable, the way he shifted his weight from one leg to the other and drummed his fingers against his own thigh. He smiles as pleasantly as he can manage, then gestures toward the coffee machines. “Are you thirsty, or just looking for an excuse to bother me?”

The Detective balked long enough for Connor to escape the break room, ignoring his curse-filled retort. They weren’t as lighthearted or interesting as Hank’s. It sounded as if he were choking on his own clever words.

He was safe once he was in clear view of several other officers, so the likelihood of Reed retaliating physically was low — especially now that androids were legally recognized as sentient beings.

Connor finally placed the coffee cup down on Hank’s desk, a tightly amused smile on his lips. He couldn’t identify what he was feeling. Hank raised his brows, his gaze shifting from the still-steaming Reed now sat as his desk to Connor’s playful expression. “Got into it with Reed already, huh. Somehow, miraculously, I forgot about how much of a fucking prick he can be.” He sipped at the coffee gratefully, turning back to his terminal. “Don’t let him give you any trouble, Connor.”

“I won’t, Hank.” He sounded certain as he powered on his terminal.

Smug. He was feeling smug.

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd like, follow me on Twitter [here](https://twitter.com/mick_draws), where I post D:BH art, headcanons, and this fic.


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